


are you melting (into nothing)

by deputymercury



Series: The City of Price [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Assassin Rose Lalonde, Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Gen, Horrorterrors - Freeform, Lovecraftian, Minor Character Death, Murder, Organized Crime, Supernatural Elements, Vomiting, not quite grimdark but very reminiscent of it, she spits up black goop, well technically not the act of vomit but like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 04:10:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15622239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deputymercury/pseuds/deputymercury
Summary: Rose Lalonde has a duty to murder those she is told must die. It is simply the way she avoids living on the harsh streets.And in a city where anything goes, she has assistance from the gods in her endeavors.





	are you melting (into nothing)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is rated T, but it's bordering on M due to the violence, so please be careful, y'all
> 
> Title is from 'Sunny Delights' by I Monster, I had it on repeat while writing this.

Rose’s first victim this night is a man of twenty-six years of age, shaggy brown hair, hazel eyes, five foot ten. She knows it is him the moment she looks through the half-cracked window, lazily held together with duct tape. It’s no surprise. The addresses are usually right, and when they’re not, she knows it’s an ambush. But those are a rarity.

She checks the window; unlatched. What a fool. Sliding it opens, she slips in with the grace of a cat and lands on the worn carpet, decorated with deep red stains. From the stench radiating off the sleeping man, she can tell he’s the type to drink too much wine. Rose almost scoffs. As if drinking a ‘refined’ beverage will separate him from the rest of the scum in the city, herself included.

Her hands go to the black ribbon around her neck. On it hangs a simple pendant of dark obsidian, its depths gleaming as if it has something to hide. Occasionally, someone will corner her in one of the many dark alleyways in Price and pull a gun on her, insisting she choose between her pretty bauble or her life. None of those petty thieves have left the alleyway with their limbs intact, of course. Rose has a reputation to keep up.

“I beseech you, Great Old Ones,” she whispers, the words spilling from her lips, filling the room with prayer. “I ask now that you accept this sacrifice, if you only offer me your assistance.”

She hears the ancient tongues in her mind now, the incomprehensible babble swirling around to form simple words. Commands. Rose is normally not one to trifle with gods, but these could cause her destruction in an instant. One misaligned whim and she could simply combust, leaving only a dark stain to tell the world that Rose Lalonde ever existed.

_We accept._

_Come forth, little one._

Rose closes her eyes; the motions are all familiar, and her steps are guided by the Great Old Ones. She draws her dagger, the ornate hilt adorned with spiraling tentacles. Something cold drips from her nose and down her face. Rose pays it no mind as she stands before the sleeping man, her sacrificial lamb, the next of many.

He will not be the last.

She feels the heat radiating from his body in waves. The temperature has dropped; Rose’s teeth clack and chatter for a few seconds before she clenches her jaw to make them stop. She raises the dagger as the whispers grow louder and louder still, rising in a cacophony of unfathomable voices.

The dagger plunges down. Warmth splatters across Rose’s chest, a few stray drops landing upon her hair. She hears a choked noise from the man in bed. Rose does not open her eyes. She does not need to. It is all the same after a while; the shocked, petrified looks on the faces of her victims are nothing new. The job is easier when she keeps her eyes closed and allows the Great Old Ones to use her as an instrument of power.

Her hands twitch and pulse, twisting the dagger further. The man is making choked noises now, his breaths rattling in his chest as he tries to comprehend his own demise. He coughs, once, twice. A low, raspy voice fills her ears.

“Who…? What did I do to…?”

Rose still refuses to open her eyes. She understands the questions he’s asking: _Who are you? What did I do to deserve this?_ He is dying; it is not as if he will be able to tell anyone the answers. So she speaks.

“My name is Rose, and I am here to kill you.” An ice-cold, familiar liquid bubbles up to her lips. She resists the urge to gag. “I do not know what crime you’ve committed. However, my employers say it warrants your death.” Not the Great Old Ones. They are not her employers so much as her source of power. The people who pay her to murder, on the other hand, are folks who roam Price as she does, searching for a way to claw to the top.

“Wh-” He coughs a third time, and the residue splatters across Rose’s arms, her hands still gripping the knife plunged into his chest. “Why? Why does it… have to be like this?”

“Are you asking me why I chose to kill you in this way?”

“Y-yes.”

Rose senses the life force draining into her from the dagger, drinking in what remains of the man’s vital energy. The Great Old Ones bring her power, though their magic harnesses the victims’ spirits and gives her the ability to perform feats of magick without their assistance. “You see me as being unmerciful, yes? But what would the alternative be? Perhaps you are thinking you would have preferred death by poisoned wine. Think about it, though. You would not know you were trapped in your last moments until you woke up in the afterlife.” Her mouth is filling with more of the frigid liquid. She spits to the side. “At least now you know the end is here. You have time to pray to whatever god you believe in.”

She leans close. The stench of wine the man emanates is fading out, replaced with the metallic odor of blood and, beneath that, something sharp and burning. “Would you prefer a pretty lie, or the ugly truth you face now? Consider it.”

“Open your-” Another cough, quieter this time- “your eyes. Are you too much of a coward to see me die?”

Rose opens her eyes. And by the look on the man’s face, he wishes she hadn’t.

She knows the way her face changes when she uses the power of the Great Old Ones; her face becomes sunken, the shadows more pronounced, and the black liquid bubbles from the bottom of her stomach up to her throat, pouring between her lips and out of her nose. She knows how her eyes look to him: all too wide, gone completely dark and lifeless.

She stares at the man, observing the way the blood has turned from lively red to the same ebony as her spew. Her powers have grown stronger. It’s clear not only from the blood but also from the ghastly look on his pale face.

“I am no coward,” she hisses, and she digs the knife deeper. At last her sacrificial lamb goes limp. The chorus of voices in her ears fades to a dim whisper.

_Well done._

Rose pulls the dagger from his chest and wipes it off on the bed sheets. There is no need for her to report evidence of the murder to her latest employer; they will know from the way this man is briefly reported dead, then forgotten, just as the rest of her victims are. It is not by magick; death is a familiar face to everyone in Price.

She checks the nightstand and finds a wallet. First she digs out the cash, stuffing it into a plastic-lined pocket of her black dress, and zips it shut. Next she locates a variety of cards, all useless to her, but perhaps her employer would like them. Those go in the pocket too. Last is a picture of the man and his family: a brunette wife with an hourglass figure, and a gap-toothed child.

Rose tells herself not to feel guilty. Then she summons some of the life force she drained from the man, her fingers lighting up on the inside until her veins are visible inside the illuminated skin. Flickers of fire encase the wallet, enveloping it until all that is left is ash that crumbles between her fingers.

She pulls a handkerchief from her other pocket and goes to wipe the window down when she notices the cracked mirror hanging on the wall. Her reflection stares back, too familiar and too alien all at once. Rose does not bother to feel sorrow about the black liquid splattered across her face and neck, nor does she lament the stains of blood on the fabric of her dress. This happens whenever she goes to complete the requests of her clients, traipsing around on moonless nights: a stained girl in a stained dress. She won’t bother to clean it until she slinks back to her apartment.

Rose crawls out the window, then wipes away any fingerprints. Cleaning up the evidence is of no concern to her; the police will investigate, but everyone in Price knows they are nothing more than puppets. As for the blackened blood, that will be attributed to dark magick. Double-crossing, murder, any sinister sorcery: it’s all fair game in this city.

She checks the writing on the inside of her elbow: 43 Cambridge Street, female, forty-five, light brown hair, blue eyes, five foot six. It’s just another victim. Just a night’s work. Just so she can survive.

There’s no other way to come out on top. The Great Old Ones whispering in her ears certainly agree.

Rose slips into the alleyway, melting into the shadows. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Price isn't an actual place or something from another fandom; I simply wanted to make a harsh and cutthroat city for the setting. I have some ideas to make this a collection of stories in this setting, involving various Homestuck characters, of course.


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